The old man. In the corner, all the sure signs of a consumate smoker painted plain as fragile grey skin on his face, sipping a beer and looking hangdog and blank at the same time.
This weren't anykind of reccurrence, Beet couldn't remember nothing like this happening before in his recollection. He blinked at the old man slow, but the old man just continued on his way of ignoring Beet, ignoring everyone, and just sipping away like that were gods purpose of putting him there on earth.
Beet shifted a little on his seat, as though he was uncomfortable. The barman avoided eye contact.
Beet heard the hog pulling up outside. He thought about getting up, brushing down his damp coveralls, and lumbering over to that old man, pointing out the definite earmarks that made the table Bobby Joe's and no-one elses and if no-one else chose to sit there, well and good, but if somebody else so chose then woe betide.
Beet couldn't decide what he would say to the man, so he didn't go over.
When the bar door swung open, Beet just dipped his head and peered into his beer, and waited for the storm to hit.
This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: smoker, rankle, earmarks, reccurence, and hog.
Image courtesy of Ben McLeod.